In which cases are worked, and then Sherlock loses his pants
by I'm Nova
Summary: The boys are (finally) together - more than that, their anniversary is drawing near. A case seems to be the perfect way to celebrate - or not? Now with cover by the awesome missmuffin221! I'm over the moon!


_A.N. Happy birthday, Sendai, love! I hope you will like this. You did say 'please'…and yes, it took me months, and I tweaked it a bit, but it is done in time at least. This is my first toplock and I so hope I didn't botch it (I'm usually on the other side of the fence, as you know). Enjoy (hopefully)!_

 _In which cases are worked, and then Sherlock loses his pants_

Sometimes Sherlock can't believe it is all true. That after Mary faked her pregnancy (yes, fine, he was wrong…John's been wrong about it too, and he's a doctor, not exactly flattering about his medical prowess – flattering for Sherlock that John could barely stand to look at her after she shot him) and helped Moriarty, John didn't just come back to Baker Street. He confessed his love for the detective.

But such should have been impossible, shouldn't it? Maybe it is all a dream? A wondrous dream. A dream that is lasting rather too long – it's been almost a year. Maybe he's in a coma? Which means someone might terminate life support at any moment, and if that is so, he's going to enjoy it while it lasts.

He never confesses such musings to John, out of fear that his blogger would actually agree and reveal that he is in truth MindPalace!John, and that if he feels like he can access his mind palace with its own John it is only because his dream world has developed several levels, like in that movie they saw the other week. (Have they seen it? Or has it escaped deletion from some reason or another and it's a message from his own subconscious about what is happening to him?)

If he did, John would have kissed him senseless and confessed that he himself wonders so many times if during that last case some of Moriarty's snipers killed him, and this – Sherlock cheating on his Work, and with him of all people – is his own brand of heaven. (It is silly, of course. John knows that Sherlock loves him. The man has proved it beyond every conceivable doubt. A jury of their peers would agree if the matter was debated.)

Surprisingly precious little has changed between them now that they're officially dating. John doesn't protest Angelo's stubbornness in getting them a candle each and every time, but smiles instead. One time (just the once, but it's fine – he'd start wondering if he's fallen down the rabbit hole into an alternate universe if it had happened more than once), after a long double shift that the sleuth had vehemently protested against but which John has accepted because he owed it to Sarah when she was in dire need – John came home to discover Sherlock had taken care of the shopping. Milk included.

And then, naturally, sometimes John just kisses Sherlock instead of saying, "Brilliant," at crime scenes. There's been a tryst or two (or more, to be honest, but who's counting?) in semi-public places after the resolution of a case because apparently Sherlock can't wait to have him when he's high on adrenaline (John heartily approves).

They have normal dates, too, not involving chasing down criminals and being possibly shot. (Though the shoots out dates are, without a contest, John's favourites, as they are Sherlock's favourites too, so it's all fine). They go to the movies and Sherlock agrees not to deduce anything too loudly. His whispers instead into John's ears often turns from his random deductions and "That's physically impossible, what bad use of special effects" that make him giggle to more interesting suggestions for alternatives – though he has a secret weakness for moving films.

Sometimes, they play tourists and go sightseeing while Sherlock talks a much more fluent French than he exhibited on his return. John stays wisely silent because no one would take him for French otherwise. The only sentences he knows in that language (and a dozen more) are "Je t'aime" and "Voulez vous coucher avec moi?"

Now their one-year anniversary is coming close, and while they have agreed at the start of this relationship that John's not expecting him to be 'normal' by any means, and he supposes that entails not making a big thing of silly dates like anniversaries, or worse Valentine's day, Sherlock can't help but grow anxious their anniversary draws nearer. John is a romantic at heart. Maybe he'll expect something, after all. Or worse, offer Sherlock some grand gesture of his own and Sherlock, unprepared, will have nothing to give back and he'll disappoint John and the doctor will break up with him. Sherlock needs to breathe before he gives himself a panic attack.

The detective who is usually so capable and knowing when it comes to his detecting, has no idea what to do for an anniversary. Of course, their favourite activity is solving cases, but he can't be sure a case will present itself on the right day. If Moriarty was still free…no, he probably wouldn't have done it anyway. Writing, "Dear Jim, please arrange a fun case for my lover's one year anniversary," would have meant that he'd owe something to the consulting criminal in payment, and owing the consulting criminal is dangerous business not even he's mad enough to endorse.

What to do then? John's the one who will probably think of some sort of overly sentimental activity. Sherlock wouldn't even think to give his usual token of protest (his heart melts as much as anyone's when his partner romances him, to be entirely honest – but don't tell Mycroft; he has an image to maintain). Some sort of meaningful gift, then? Of course, John will probably top him in that too – he's much more adequate at this new sentiment business – but let it not be said that, for John Watson, Sherlock didn't try his best.

Near desperation, Sherlock goes to Molly for a suggestion. Molly is an intelligent woman, and she knows about romantically adequate behaviour more than Sherlock (like most people on earth, to be honest). But she's kind too, and won't call him an idiot or a freak for being uncertain about the proper conduct.

She suggests something handmade "with love," she specifies, as if anything else is possible when he's working for John. "Oh, and no body parts," she tacks at the end as an afterthought, which makes things difficult. Because Sherlock – beyond the violin – has little talent outside gifts involving dead body parts or cases. He doesn't want to compose John a musical piece lest his lover be reminded of that unfortunate wedding waltz and the events around it.

Molly sees his uncertainty, and – as always – offers to help. "I could teach you to knit. John so loves his jumpers." They soon determine an actual jumper is too big project given the time they have, but Sherlock thinks that a light blue scarf – the same colour of John's eyes – might be doable. And if he spends hours at Bart's, claiming a new experiment that requires equipment only available at the hospital, John won't suspect a thing. Why, he might be pleased that their kitchen isn't, once again, invaded by random body parts.

When the day of the anniversary comes around, John doesn't mention any plans or try to give him something. Sherlock isn't disappointed. He isn't. Besides, the day hasn't passed yet. John still might have plans for later and be waiting to surprise him. That would be in-character for John, after all. And if John is keeping to their agreement, well, that's him being considerate, too, so the sleuth can't really – and certainly won't – complain. It will just mean that he has a gift already for next Christmas. (John's birthday is in summer, and a woollen scarf is hardly an appropriate gift for that).

He wonders idly if Lestrade is aware of their anniversary and trying to help set the right mood when the D.I. comes with a case. Of course, the case is at most a four, and Lestrade comes with cases often, but there's an amused glint in his eyes that suggests he might be aware – at least of the effects most cases have on them (the sleuth admits that it is a bit obvious, and Graham is after all passably observant).

Sherlock invites John to follow along on the case, grinning. It's nothing big – but serial killers don't come every day, after all (luckily for the general populace, he supposes) – and John's answering grin, while he holds his hand (they do things like that, now) is all Sherlock needs to feel happy.

The case unexpectedly gains one rank as soon as they arrive on the scene. They find a night club with one dismembered client in one of the club's private rooms. It isn't as easy as checking who booked the room though. Turns out the victim, herself, booked the room. She was in the habit of coming to the club, pulling someone, retiring to one of the private rooms, and then parting with him or her (she was bi and followed the mood of the night) before going home with a big smile on her face. Today, it appeared, she'd picked wrong. Unfortunately, the cameras in the club were broken. No footage of the crime could be found.

John examines the body (parts) and gives his report. Nothing Sherlock wouldn't have deduced for himself, but he makes a point to thanking and praising his lover. After all, he's not a proper scientist and without John's or another medical expert's word, he couldn't be completely sure. Of course, another medical expert would inevitably sneer at him, so it's a blessing that John's talents fit so perfectly with his needs. If he didn't know better than to be so silly – and had his inner Mycroft not called him an idiot vehemently anytime he even thought about such things – Sherlock might even call this incredible lucky partnership, fate.

"So what can you tell me?" Lestrade asks, eager for some result.

"I have a strong hypothesis," Sherlock replies. And eight more if that one doesn't work out, but one is really looking probable at the moment.

"Good enough for me," the DI concedes with a nod.

"No it's not. Let me investigate something on my own. I promise tomorrow I will either have results or…well, I'll have to reevaluate things, but I will be debriefing you. Tomorrow evening at the latest," the sleuth explains.

"Not on your own," John interjects, as always worried that his partner might be going after someone who'd chop him apart, alone.

"Yes, yes, with you, that's quite obvious, John. You are, indeed, an integral part of my plan for this investigation, I assure you," the detective agrees swiftly.

"That's more like it," John remarks curtly, his former Captain nature close to the surface, and as always when that happens, Sherlock has to fight not to go immediately weak-kneed. Now's not the time or place. (Soon, though.)

"I suppose I'll have to agree to your conditions", concedes Lestrade. "But tomorrow, Sherlock. I don't care if you do not have results. I need to be kept in the loop. And for the love of God, don't try to capture the murderer on your own, even with John. Bloody text me. It's my job, you know." Greg is really rather fond of these two adrenaline addicts.

"Fine, fine," Sherlock replies, but he sounds like he's not entirely aware of what he's saying. He's just saying whatever Greg wants to hear, clearly. The DI represses a sigh. At least there'll be John by his side.

"I need you to do something now, John," Sherlock says. 'For me' goes untold but not unheard. After the whole Fall debacle, Sherlock simply can't say 'do this for me' without being potentially triggering. Which is unfair, because John uses the words unabashedly, well aware that his partner is fully incapable of resisting them, but Sherlock made his choices and now has to live with the consequences.

"Sure," the blogger agrees easily.

"The waitress who came with complimentary drinks and found the body – I need you to flirt with her," the sleuth announces simply.

"What?" John yelps. He clearly didn't expect that – and doesn't like the idea much. John wonders if Sherlock remembers the significance of today's date? He is an intensely monogamous person. Well…serially monogamous at least. Sherlock is so lucky to be the object of John's faithful feelings (for now at least). But he really needs John to flirt with her now, and flirt with her well.

"Come on, you can't have forgotten how to flirt. You did that enough in the past," the detective teases, thinking it's just friendly banter but perhaps some of the old hurt and bitterness seeps through, judging from John's uncomfortable blush. He's messing things up (like usual).

"I will do it if that's what you want," John caves in finally.

"It's what I need. For the case," Sherlock points out, the distinction very clear.

"Well then I suppose I'll have to sacrifice myself," John sighs.

"Oh, is it a sacrifice now?" the sleuth queries, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. God knows John used to love it Before. Almost as much as the detective hated it.

"Definitely. How charmed do you want her?" the doctor replies. He won't like it, but he knows how to seduce almost any woman. He was just rubbish at keeping them afterward. Then again, that was because he put Sherlock first. At least now his relationship won't suffer from his seductions. At least now that his boyfriend is actually Sherlock instinctively putting him first can only earn him points, not ruin his relationship.

"Charmed enough to make a definite impression. Lead her to hope. But, do not tumble into bed or the supply closet with her," the sleuth instructs calmly.

"Sherlock!" his lover chides, blushing. As if he would ever betray his relationship with Sherlock! What sort of idea would Lestrade make of him? Would he think that John's no better than his own ex-wife?

"Just saying. I do know – well, I hope – that you wouldn't," Sherlock acknowledges. Hope? What's John been doing wrong for Sherlock to be so unsure of him?

"Not helping – look, let's get this over with and go home, please," John half-begs. Then he can properly reassure his lover.

"Whenever you're ready," the detective agrees, shrugging.

It's necessary for the case, he reminds himself. Yes, he suspects that the woman might be a ripper and is unbeknownst to anyone setting John up as bait for tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan. But leading her to attempt it again is the easier way to prove she's guilty, and John knows how to defend himself. Not to mention Sherlock will be there tomorrow. And, Lestrade too, if he's not too slow like usual. There's only a 2% risk of John being seriously hurt, according to his estimate.

Immediately obeying – if with a last sigh, his John sets out to charm. Sherlock's forgotten how much he hated John flirting with other people – and usually, for most of it Sherlock wasn't even present. Now he's watching like a hawk, and God but it hurts. It's decided: Sherlock Holmes is a bloody masochist. No, it's for the case, for the case, for the case, but no matter how many times he repeats it in his head he can barely stop himself from going over to the pair and snatching John bodily away.

John's so beautiful, all smiles, small touches, body inclined towards her. Sherlock's not close enough to hear them over the music in the nightclub, he can't do that to himself, hear the obvious compliments (God but John's praise is a form of magic), or the good-natured teasing. There's an old, once so very familiar burning in his chest, only so much stronger now that John's really _his_. He has the right to drag John away from this woman, now (especially now – especially today).

But John is only doing as asked, and he's clearly doing it well. Too well. He protested against his request, but truth is that he's enjoying this, isn't he? Maybe he misses having one soft female body to cuddle him and do other things with him. John has been forced to admit he's bi, but today it appears he's clearly more partial to the female form. He's tempted. Too tempted.

Sherlock doubts that John realizes he's flirting with a probable killer. Then again, he wouldn't mind if he knew. It would certainly be an upgrade in comparison to the unspeakably dull women he used to date, not counting the one he actually married. 'Mary' wasn't dull at all although she still counts as the worst choice John ever made in his long list of unhealthy relationships. (Not just because she actually shot Sherlock either.) His beloved blogger would agree, in retrospect, now.

The detective tries to distract himself from his feelings but he can't get his mind off John's flirting. Nothing should happen today, of course, but it is a murderer he's facing. One never knows with these kind of killers who murder for passion and feeling over cold-blood and money. Such types are more dangerous and unpredictable. Sherlock tries to recite in his mind the periodic table but even this usually failsafe mind game does not help today.

He hates this whole business of John flirting with the suspect but he lets it go on longer, for the work's sake. How much time does John need to woo her to make an impression anyway? Judging from the way she giggles sweetly, she's already more than a bit taken with his blogger.

But then – oh, then John smiles at her. And it's not one of his flirting, rehearsed smiles. It's a honest, genuine, lovely smile. A smile that Sherlock would have been ready to swear in court that was reserved to him and him alone. How can John do this? How _dares_ he?

A dark growl arises in the sleuth's throat, and he's unable to control it for a moment. That's it. Things have gone on long enough. He doesn't care if he botches the case. He needs to stop what's happening before John decides that he likes her better and moves from a bit of harmless flirting to honest wooing. He needs to stop things before John decides Sherlock's not good enough for him after all.

He marches to John and declares sternly, "The investigation is over. Let's get home."

"John doesn't have to, if he doesn't want," their suspect protests, miffed. It feels so much like old times that Sherlock wonders for a moment if he hasn't slipped into a wormhole and somehow fallen back to the past.

"No, sorry, Midge, I have work very early tomorrow. I'd love to stay and continue chatting, but I really have to go. Will I find you here some other day?" John queries. He correctly assumes that Sherlock didn't make him court her just to keep him occupied for ten minutes and that there's going to be more later on.

"I have this shift – ending at two a.m. every Friday, on weekends and Wednesday. I would love to see you again," she says, smiling coquettishly.

"Home," Sherlock repeats, and though it's a risk to John's cover, he drags him away by the wrist. He needs the small contact. The reassurance that John doesn't want to get away from him – not yet at least.

John waves a goodbye to her, with a somehow awkward smile, and follows the detective. Not that he has much choice, not without fighting the detective – which he has no intention of doing. He's been doing everything Sherlock asked, no matter how unpleasant he found it. Why is the detective angry now? It makes no sense.

The sleuth summons a cab, and once in, he finally lets John go but gives him the cold shoulder. His posture only makes things worse. John feels suddenly bereft. "Sherlock? Will you tell me what have I done?" he queries, desperate to understand. It looks almost as if he's hurt his partner – but that can't be, can it? Was it all a test? Was John meant to refuse spitefully even looking at anyone who is not his lover? Even if the case depended on it?

"Not here," his partner hisses back, pointedly looking out the cab window instead of at him. John doesn't know what he's done (is this about today? He thought Sherlock didn't want to celebrate) and it's starting to piss him off too. It's not fair to be punished for some terrible sin he's not committed. Not knowingly at least.

At home, Sherlock holds him by the wrist, again, and though he could free himself easily, John lets him. They're back to touching, and that's better, even when he's still angry. Mrs. Hudson appears, having heard them, remarking, "By the way, John, that package you were waiting for arrived – "

Before she can go on, the sleuth barks, "Not now, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh yes, of course! How silly of me," she quips. Not realizing they're not in a hurry to have glorious anniversary sex (probably).

Once they are in their flat, Sherlock glowers angrily.

"What did I do?" John asks, once again.

"You smiled at her!" Sherlock yells.

"I was supposed to be flirting!" the blogger points out, flabbergasted.

"You smiled our smile at her. The one you only ever give me," Sherlock explains, clearly hurt.

Oh. That explains things. Yes, he's done that (and of course John knows which smile Sherlock means – it's on his lips anytime he thinks of his boyfriend). "Because she said –" he attempts to clarify, soothing.

"I don't want to hear your justifications!" his lover cuts in sharply. "You're mine!" The sleuth kisses him, dominating, and still angry, and John yields, moaning softly into his mouth. He didn't think sex was on the table, with Sherlock this upset. He's very glad to be wrong, though. If his beloved feels the need to remind him to whom he belongs (as if he could ever really forget it!), John will let him…and thank him later.

John hopes they move this to the bedroom. Though, if Sherlock wants to have him on the sofa – or the table, or against the wall – he won't complain. Whatever he needs now is fine. Very fine.

"Mine," his lover growls again in his ear – and John shudders in pleasure. He shouldn't find jealous Sherlock so hot, but it's very hard not to find him unspeakably sexy all the time. And his voice, low and dark, is doing things to John.

"Yours, Sher," he agrees earnestly, trying to undress as quickly as he can. He needs his beloved –now.

"John," the sleuth chokes out, dragging him towards their bedroom (once Sherlock's – John tried to say they should have picked his and put an extra staircase between their lovemaking and Mrs. Hudson, but the sleuth's bed was bigger). He'll erase any thoughts of soft females bodies from his mind. Or perish in the attempt.

"Yours, yours, yours," the doctor promises, chanting, needing his lover to believe him, while Sherlock undresses too, throwing clothes – his and whatever's left of John's – around the room. He tastes that spot in John's collarbone that never fails to make him moan, gently teases nipples into hard little nubs and kisses his way down John's body, half reverent and half claiming.

John touches back, holding, caressing, rutting against him, dragging deep moans and "John, my John, my love, mine" from the detective. This is perfection – the both of them, in their bed, so in love they have to say it or hurt (they've hurt so long from unspoken love, but not now, not anymore).

Sherlock teases him still, further and further, aiming to drive John completely out of his mind with pleasure (and judging from his lover's broken moans, he's well on his way to success – he will entirely erase anyone else from his beloved's mind, promise.). He starts preparing his love, slowly and methodically and quite intent on getting him to beg. John's going to want him and only him, _very_ vocally too.

Of course, his blogger tries bravely to hold on. He's afraid Mrs. Hudson is going to hear him should he scream like he wants to – and, apparently, how Sherlock wants him to, but by now the sleuth is an expert at taking him apart. When his lover growls, "Bloody fuck me, Sher, you evil tease," a shadow of his Captain persona coming through, Sherlock moans, deep and drawn out, and decides he's tormented the both of them enough. It's really Sherlock that John wants, not Midge, or any other of the long series of females he's dated.

"At your service," the detective declares, finally breaching him. He could come on the spot, but he controls himself better than that. He sets a rhythm, strong and quick. Then randomly he slows down. He doesn't want this to end early. He wants John to go mad with pleasure.

"Sher – Sher – yours, Sher," his lover chants, knowing his beloved needs to hear that. And he needs to come – and even more than that, he needs Sherlock to come inside him and reaffirm that he loves his blogger and is not angry at him, not hurt by him, just full of love and happiness.

Finally, John comes, calling one last time, "Yours," and his orgasm triggers the sleuth's, who invokes, "John," his voice reverent. Afterwards, they kiss, slow and sensuous and so very sweet their hearts ache.

They end up in the shower together to clean up – and share a few more kisses while they're at it. While they're drying up, John points out quietly, "By the way love, I was thinking about you. That's why I smiled our smile."

"Were you now?" Sherlock queries, an odd mix of eager and hesitant. He's afraid of what the truth might be and, despite how pitiful a liar his lover usually is, Sherlock wishes to believe John's revelation even should it prove a blatant lie.

"Of course. I was being a little bit over the top with the compliments, maybe, but I asked why she was stuck doing this job instead of something in fashion, and she queried, 'Like your friend? Are you an agent maybe?' I denied it, of course, but my mind naturally went to you – and the smile slipped in. I do love you so, Sher," John explained, the very same smile playing now on his lips.

"Oh," the detective utters, amazed and relieved and guilty all at the same time. So John really didn't want that murderer, or any other female in the world. John was really thinking of him. It was still their special smile, which Sherlock could love with no qualms. That means he doubted his John wrongly and he really should have known better. He worries that John will resent him for his mistrust and…

"Stop it right there, Sher," his lover orders quietly.

"What?" the sleuth inquires, uncertain.

"Your thoughts are too loud. And silly. I can feel it when you try to work youself into a state inside that mind palace of yours. Relax. Whatever you're thinking, it's wrong. I promise you," John assures warmly.

"Are you not going to leave me because I can't seem to trust you like I should?" Sherlock queries in a small voice.

"I could never leave you. Certainly not over a jealous fit. If we'd been together when you met Irene… well, I would have done worse. You really shouldn't worry about me picking anyone else over you. You're simply perfect for me," his blogger reassures, hugging him tightly.

The sleuth hugs back, but then he frees himself from their embrace. "As you are for me, John, but I still feel like I should apologise. Give me a minute to get something."

He comes back with the carefully wrapped parcel, complete with blue ribbon and bow (he asked Molly's help for this, as he didn't know where to start). "It was supposed to be your anniversary gift, but now it's more like a please-forgive-me gift. Like every other gift you'll ever get from me, probably. Really, I don't know why you put up with me sometimes," he mumbles.

"And I don't know how you don't get bored of me, if we're sharing. I don't 'put up' with you, Sherlock. I adore every moment we're together, love," his lover admits, smiling widely.

"You're a better mystery than anything else I've ever encountered, John. You never fail to surprise me. How can I ever be bored?" the detective replies honestly.

John blushes at the praise. "You got me an anniversary gift," he remarks softly, accepting the parcel reverently.

"Yes, well, I thought you might…appreciate the sentiment. Oh, just open it!" Sherlock says, awkwardly. Yes, they'd agreed on not giving gifts – well, sort of – but John…John deserves everything and more from him.

"I do. Very much. Thank you, love," the doctor replies, with a quick kiss. He didn't expect his beloved to even remember their anniversary. He's overwhelmed by his love for this thoughtful, fantastic man that somehow loves him too.

John opens the package carefully, and finds the fluffy, soft, light blue scarf – just the colour of his eyes. "That's wonderful, Sherlock, thank you so much," he says, smiling, and after a breath adds, "This is hand-knit, too."

"Yes, how did you know, does it have imperfections?" the sleuth asks, sounding almost on the brink of being upset.

"No, nothing like that, but a machine would make stitches all identical. These are slightly different, the one from the other. I had an aunt that knit – Aunt Margaret, on my mother's side. She knit me my first jumper and started the preference you've teased me so much for, love. This looks just like her work," his lover explains. Then the significance of Sherlock being so nervous about possible defects catches up with him suddenly, "Wait, did _you_ knit this?"

"I did, John," the detective admits, blushing a bit.

"I didn't know you knit," the blogger remarks, smiling widely.

"I didn't but Molly taught me. She said I should craft something myself – that you'd like it more if I did. I had no idea what to do, and she offered to help. That's what all those experiments at Bart's for essential equipment were about," Sherlock confesses, sounding mildly uncertain.

"She was right. You've put all this time and care and love to create this, you even learned this from scratch, and I'm so blessed. Thank you, Mon Sher. Here, let me kiss you," John replies, almost disbelieving that his beloved worked so hard for him and him only. His lover complies, only too eagerly.

"I feel so bad, because the one gift I had planned to give you has just arrived when we were out, and I haven't wrapped it or anything," the doctor adds, feeling suddenly very inadequate.

"You got me a gift too," the detective says, as if that is entirely unexpected. And it partly is – he'd thought John might have organized something for him, but all the doubts and jealousy of today had convinced him that John didn't even want him anymore – not entirely – much less care about anniversaries.

"Of course I did. I'll go and get it. I can wrap it too if you wait for five minutes – though I might not be as good as you were," John says softly. "I'm never as good as you at anything, my dear genius." He didn't mean to say it, but it sort of slips out.

"Yes, because you're usually much better than me at things – well, beside deductions, but you didn't have Mycroft to train you from childhood," the sleuth replies, scoffing lightly. "And I don't need a pretty package. I'd only rip it to pieces anyway. You know me, love. Will you give it to me?"

John nods, and smiles, and hopes he won't have to go to Mrs. Hudson to ask her where she put his package. He finds it on the kitchen table, opens the dull, brown, cardboard package (it's really ugly, and seeing the name of the sender would take out any surprise for Sherlock) and holds it behind his back with both hands, even if it's not really necessary.

Then he goes back to the bedroom, where his lover shoots him an eager look. He can be childish sometimes, but John loves him for it. In the end, with a flourish, he presents it.

"A book," Sherlock says – pointing out the obvious, even if it's not his style. The title reads _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,_ Clued-In Publications. He takes it, looking at the ridiculous photo on the cover and checks first the index on the back of the book. The same titles from their blog – things he remembers fondly, and always pretended not to.

"You don't have any idea how hard it was to convince them not to put on the cover the photo with the hat. I had to tell them you would sue us all for something," John reveals, smiling.

"Then you have my eternal gratitude for managing it," the sleuth replies, grinning back.

"Oh really? And how are you going to recompense me?" his lover queries, teasing.

"However you please, whenever you please. Just whisper me 'no hat' and I'll comply, John," the detective assures.

"Would that make you get the milk?" the doctor ribs gently.

"I said anything. Though do you really want to waste one of your commands on milk?" Sherlock answers, pouting a bit.

"We'll see," John remarks noncommittally, then prompts gently, "Why don't you check the front of the book too?" Just like Sherlock to do things backwards in comparison to anyone else.

"Sure," the sleuth agrees, opening the book at the start…and staring. And staring. For a good four minutes. Just when the doctor starts to wonder he might have broken Sherlock once again, he hears his lover's incredulous voice. "The dedication…it's not handwritten."

"Well, no, there was no need," his blogger agrees.

"It's _printed_ ," the sleuth says, and how uncharacteristic of him to state the obvious. "Does that mean…it's on _every_ copy of the book?"

"I should very well hope so," the blond says simply.

The dedication reads in elegant type, _To Sherlock Holmes. Flatmate, best friend, partner, saviour of my life, whom I love above life itself and without whom this book could never have been born. Thank you, mon cher._

"You do realise the press will be all over us for this right?" Sherlock says quietly. They haven't hid their relationship, exactly. Certainly friends and colleagues have noticed the new looks and occasional kisses. Still, none of the journalists that have hounded them have caught them red-handed yet (how they haven't is a wonder, because they've never cared enough to hide).

"Do you like it?" John asks, suddenly doubting himself and wondering if he should have discussed the thing with Sherlock before acting impulsively. "I thought 'kiss him' would be an improvement over 'put the hat on!' as a catcall."

"It definitely is. I just didn't think you'd want that though. That's all," the sleuth replies, shrugging.

"Tell the whole world how much I love you? What else have I been doing since the very start?" the blogger quips, grinning. It is a surprise that he hasn't made a blog post about it yet, honestly. It's just that he didn't want to write it down for fear of jinxing himself. It was too good to last (wouldn't Sherlock get bored after all?). But now he's confident in himself and their love, and really now he can't help himself.

"I guess so," the detective acknowledges. And he's glad that John did. He really is. To be showered with his lover's affection, even in written form, is something that warms his heart (and amazes him – will always amaze him, in all probability, that John chose to love the walking disaster that he is.)

"Cuddle now," his lover orders, inviting him with open arms, "and preferably sleep, Sherlock. You can't function on coffee forever."

It might not be a conventional anniversary, but they had a crime scene date, great sex, and even traditional gifts. All in all, a very satisfying day. Sherlock snuggles up to him with enthusiasm, and sighs in pleasure when his beloved starts to lazily pet his hair. That never fails to make the detective boneless. He'll be asleep in a moment. In John's arms. What has he ever done to deserve perfection in his life?

"You'll have to flirt with someone else too, today," Sherlock announces over breakfast the following morning.

John groans. What has he ever done to deserve this? He doesn't want to flirt. He wants to work a case in Sherlock's wake as usual. And possibly shoot at someone. That's his idea of a great day. "With whom?" he queries, resigned.

"Donovan," the sleuth declares, waving away his lover's evident displeasure, even if it warms his heart.

"Donovan? That will never work! She knows we're together. I mean, she might have got together with Anderson even if he was married, but she didn't believe that his wife might snap and murder her if she discovered her tryst," John protests.

It is sad that, despite everything that happened, Donovan still (though she apologised, hardly able to say the words) believes that the consulting detective is a fundamentally unstable man. In her heart she still believes he could commit crimes as easily as he solves them. And, she doesn't even know about Magnussen's death.

"Well then it is good that you don't really need to seduce her. You only have to openly flirt with her, making sure Milly – Missy – whatever yesterday's girl was named notices you, and then retreat to a private room with her, and maybe rumple her clothes a little bit," the detective commands.

"Midge," the doctor automatically corrects. "I'm not refusing, but why should I?"

"Because then Midge will come after you. Probably with an axe. Keep your gun on hand. Lestrade and I will be hidden nearby, but I'd feel better knowing you have it," Sherlock explains nonchalantly.

"An axe? Are you saying that she's the murderer?" his lover asks, raising a surprised eyebrow.

"I've never seen a murderer who didn't leave behind any clues, John, and her presence was the only one beside the victim's which I could determine," the sleuth declares. He might be wrong, certainly. He might have missed some clues. But he usually doesn't.

"Well, but she killed when she was chosen, didn't she? And that woman was a regular. She probably spent a long time obsessing over her until she was finally picked by the victim. If I just flirt with her and then pick someone else…why should she come after me? You're getting things in reverse," the blogger points out. He's not objecting to possibly being bait for an axe-murderer (he'd like better not to share it with Donovan, though), but he doesn't want to see his beloved grossly mistaken as to assume he'd be a victim and be possibly mocked for having been wrong.

"You flirted with her. Teased her. Made her hope. And then you blow her off _right under her nose_ with another woman. There's enough to drive an insane woman to act. She might not have obsessed over you for months, but you're underestimating your ability to make people fall madly in love with you at first sight and act rashly in consequence," Sherlock replies with a mischievous smile.

"Love at first sight, was it?" John replies, a bit smug.

"Of course. You do are devastatingly handsome, you know. I couldn't say at first because – well, I didn't think it could ever last. And I'm not a fan of the 'having loved and lost'. Whoever said it was the better option had never lost anyone he cared about. Why? Wasn't it for you too?" the sleuth explains, sounding uncertain at the end. He doesn't want to imagine his love having been really unrequited, if only for a time, like he'd so long believed it was.

"Oh, it definitely was, and you had to fend off my advances from the start – remember Angelo's, that first time? I definitely was coming onto you. But I was too ashamed once you shot me down. And I didn't want the «I'd really like to shag you senseless, you gorgeous thing» to make things awkward since I had to live with you. Which is why I denied it so quickly," his lover admits, shaking his head at the thought of so much time lost, when they could have been together and happy.

"Anyway trust me, John. Thinking you're desired and then being abandoned is enough to drive people insane on its own, never mind if someone is already nutty," the detective states firmly.

"All my numerous past girlfriends beg to differ," John says simply. He knows Sherlock won't like even the mention of his past relationships, but come on, that's ridiculous.

"That's because they have the JHWEC – it's not so different from SMART recovery groups," the detective declares, without even a hint of a smile. But he's always been a wondrous liar.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what JHWEC stands for," his blogger replies.

"John Hamish Watson's Exes Club, obviously," the sleuth says, again with an entirely straight face, the git, "I believe Dr Sawyer founded it – or at least the UK branch."

"And how would you know? You've never been my ex-boyfriend," the doctor points out, trying to be reasonable.

"They apparently made an exception for me after you married. It was actually Sholto who called at Baker Street one day and dragged me to a reunion. I naturally refuse to attend any more. It was too…crowded," Sherlock explains, with a moue of distaste.

"Wait – Sholto?" John echoes, unable to imagine the severe man sitting in a circle with Sarah, Jeanette, Nina, Rose and all the others. Talking about how John ruined their lives? Come on, it's ridiculous.

"I did say exes, not past girlfriends. He looked like he needed it more than most," the sleuth explains, shrugging.

"Yes well, I'd wish it had been less crowded – sorry about that. So, you might have stayed if it hadn't been so crowed instead of accepting Magnussen's case as an excuse to take drugs?" the doctor asks. John's treating this as a real thing, expecting Sherlock, suddenly uncomfortable with the mention of his past drug use, to finally admit something like, "Don't be ridiculous. It doesn't exists."

Instead, his lover remarks, "I apologise. I've never been good the first time in rehab – always escaped from that. My various addictions sort of mixed. But nothing lasted. You saw to that. Thank you, by the way."

"I couldn't let you hurt yourself, mon cher," John says softly, using the French endearment which he adores because it doubles as a nickname. "Anyway, if you're sure of your theory, I will flirt with Donovan tonight – but I won't like it. At least she will be in the gig and won't expect me to actually do anything. It could become mighty awkward with some poor unsuspecting woman if we were _not_ interrupted by an axe-wielding murderer."

"Why would you doubt me?" the detective pouts.

"Didn't mean to, sorry, but well, love, she looked pretty harmless," John replies. Though to him Mary looked the harmless, kind nurse, so maybe he's not the best suited person to judge a woman's danger level.

And indeed, later that day he will be grateful for his own military training because Sherlock is right once again. He always is, isn't he? Exit Midge (and the axe she took from the emergency fire fighting kit), led by Donovan – who, even expecting an attack, would have been overpowered and chopped in half had John not been there. Then again, she would never have been attacked if she hadn't agreed to go along with John's mad plan in the first place, so keeping her alive is something John sorta owed her.

But that's still in the future. Now, John agrees to it – but he needs to negotiate his own terms. "If I'm going to be a philanderer bait, I want a recompense."

"And what would that be?" the sleuth queries, raising an eyebrow.

"Tonight, after the case is closed – or as soon as we get back home if it isn't closed, I don't care – you will show me to whom I belong again. Like yesterday. Even if you don't doubt – which you shall never do – that I love and only you more than life itself," John demands, with a smirk. A gorgeous teasing smirk.

"That, John, can definitely be arranged," Sherlock assures, leering right back. "So, you liked yesterday, did you?"

"Enough to be tempted to get into the flirting business once more, if only to ensure you'd do that again. But I don't want to hurt you so I'd prefer being upfront and asking for what I want," his lover explains, with a fond smile.

"As they say, ask and you shall receive," the detective agrees. "If you do flirt without being instructed to, I won't guarantee that there won't be tears by the end of it." He's already made more than one of John's old dates cry, after all.

"Which part of I love you and don't want to ever hurt you have you missed?" the doctor asks, sighing. He's so very in love with this wonderful, amazing, terribly insecure man. Sherlock kisses him, deeply and hungrily. John is more than enthusiast, but when the kiss ends, he leaves the bed. "Right. Now breakfast, Mister. You'll need energy for the day."

"Tease," his lover counters, but he follows. After all, John is right. (And Sherlock wants very much to please him.)


End file.
